Chandler Baker

Conventional wisdom suggests that, when the world finally does begin to fall apart, love will be the only thing left that really matters. Petty grievances will fall away.

Instead, you will spend time with loved ones. Hold them close. Be present. Let them know that you care.

I run through the lists of today’s clients, circling the items I still need. Listen, I’m not here to judge anyone’s life choices, but, Mr. Culver, are three different types of soft cheeses and organic pomegranate seeds, like, really priorities right now? I make my best guess for Mrs. Phillips, which is all I can do, given the woman still doesn’t know how to text, and make my way through the maze of shoppers who are demonstrating the whole spectrum of concern levels.

“Miss!” someone calls out from somewhere between canned goods and chips, and I’m 99 percent sure that he’s not talking to me because I have a messy bun and a hole in the armpit of my favorite T-shirt and Miss is some country
club shit. “Uh, miss. Hello, I’m talking to you. Excuse me. You can’t do that.” A boy taps me on the shoulder and when I turn around, I see that we are the exact same height, looking eye to light blue eye, a detail that I only notice because, first of all, I’m not oblivious, and, second of all, he is all up in my business.

“Excuse you,” I say, but with attitude, and while trying not to notice the passersby staring me down like I’m trying to shoplift an entire case of frozen pizzas. “Social distancing.” I shoo him back.

He hooks his palm around the back of his neck and stares down the Salty Snacks aisle. “Oh, um, sorry, but you’re not supposed to hoard . . . toilet paper.”

“I’m not.” I lean my elbow on the cart handle, mentally tap-tap-tapping as a frantic shelf-stocker in a black apron and an “Ask Me about Super Savings” button rushes between us.

“Actually, you’ve got six packages.” He says it like it pains him a little to be the one to point this out. And yeah, I made sure to score a load from Lou in Inventory as soon as I arrived because I read the news. “The shelves are empty,”
he says, “and it’s just—well—you’re only supposed to take what you really need. So that there’s enough to go around.”

I eye his basket: a wheel of brie, Clorox wipes, and two bottles of sparkling water.

“So that’s what you really need?” I reach up and pull my bun tighter. “Not that I need to explain myself to you, but this is my job.” Like it pains me a little to be the one to point this out. “I deliver groceries.”

Slowly, I take a pack of toilet paper and use the only nail whose life my teeth have miraculously spared to rip into the plastic, selecting a single roll. “Catch,” I say, and throw it over to him.

“What’s this?” He squeezes the roll.

“Toilet paper.” Obviously.

“Yeah, but I—”

“You didn’t say how much.” I pause a beat for him to catch up. “The contract simply stated that I owed you toilet paper. Period. Frankly, I think I’m being generous. It’s a double roll.”

“Okay, but I clearly meant—I mean—this—”

“Sorry.” I shrug. “Verbal contracts are binding, I hear.”

I turn as I’m walking away with my loot. He’s standing on his tiptoes. “Come on. It’s not like you can give someone an opened package!”

“That was from my stash,” I yell from the end of the aisle. “Pleasure doing business with you.” I salute. Shopping lists complete.

“Well, it turned out we didn’t really specify,” I manage weakly.

I’m still trying to remember how that happened. We were negotiating and it seemed to be fairly equitable . . . and then I was looking at her big green eyes and the way the right corner of her lip moved when she smiled and then I had no toilet paper and yeah it all makes sense.

She takes a deep breath and examines me. Her eyes are sharp and small and hazel like our mom’s had been . . . minus the warmth. “It all just seems a little . . . odd for you,” she says finally, picking at her teeth.

“The embarrassing handling of a negotiation—”

“No,” she corrects, analyzing some residual broccolini. We had that for dinner two days ago. “That’s standard fare. I meant the actual gumption to negotiate with a stranger. You screamed ‘Stranger Danger’ every time someone walked by us in a parking lot until you were twelve. You’re neurotic.”

A diagnosed neurotic, in fact. First came the GAD: generalized anxiety disorder. That one sucks, but it’s the panic
disorder that truly kicks my ass. I earned that label in eighth grade following my first public panic attack.

It was the loose strands of hair falling around her cheeks. It was the way she spoke . . . the confidence and the easy lopsided smile and the way her eyebrows arched and fell in a second conversation that was surprisingly easy to decipher: vaguely amused, this boy is an idiot, vaguely amused, this boy is an idiot . . .

And yeah, they never indicated: Oh, he’s cute. Or: I wish he would ask for my number. God, I wish I’d asked for her number. A last name. A chance. All I have is Max.